Decisions & Revisions
by Jessica Roberts
Summary: Sara finds that turning back time isn't as simple a solution as she'd hoped.


Title: Decisions & Revisions  
Rating: PG-13  
Legal: I don't own 'em. I wish I did.  
Spoilers: The entire first season, including the Movie. This is my idea of what might happen after time turns back. It picks up directly after the last epoisode of the first season.  
  
Thanks to my beta-reader Donna. She is absolutely, positively, amazingly fabulous (to prove this, check out her videos at http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/witchblade/. All mistakes, therefore, are mine, and mine alone.

*****

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse

--"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot

*****

Ian Nottingham stood very still. Something had just happened. He didn't know exactly what, but something had. He had seen Sara Pezzini and her partner, Danny Woo, drive away from the old Rialto theater. His bait should have worked, but that wasn't what bothered him. It was if, at the same time he'd watched the car drive away, he'd seen it _stay_ and Sara and Woo get out.

He shook his head to try to clear it, but the feeling remained. It was if he'd seen a glimpse of a different future. Maybe not just glimpsed it, he thought. He _felt_ different, too, in a way he couldn't explain. Freer, maybe, but he wasn't sure. He didn't really know what freedom felt like.

Filing away these disturbing events for later consideration, Nottingham pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

"She didn't go in, sir," Ian said, without waiting for a greeting. He knew he should tell his master about his strange feeling, but he found he didn't want to. "I'll follow her and see if I can make contact in another way."

"She must _use_ the Witchblade, Ian," Kenneth Irons said testily, "Not just wear it. I will allow you your judgment in this. Do not fail me."

"I won't," Ian said, and snapped the phone closed.

*****

Sara had paced her apartment for nearly an hour after she'd gotten off of work. She'd felt decidedly strange all day. As if her life hadn't been stressful enough lately, with her friend Maria's death, Tommy Gallo's mere existence, the explosion at the Midtown Museum, and the weird visions she'd been having since then, she felt like she was missing something really big. Even her apartment didn't feel right. For some reason, it didn't seem like she lived there anymore. It was like the nightmare she had, even after six years on the force, of going into work and having forgotten to put on her pants.

She'd checked everything: wallet, keys, picture of her mother, her father's badge -- everything that meant anything to her. It was all there. Even the bracelet she'd found on her wrist after the explosion -- it was there. Why she should care about that, she didn't know, but she did. It was still there, on her wrist, the back of the red stone strangely warm against her wrist. Finally, she had given up and gone out.

The bracelet caught the light now, as she leaned down to put the eight ball in the side pocket, and Sara could have sworn it flashed -- sparklingly alive in the gloom of the bar -- for a second. Even with the distraction, though, she made the shot. She smiled at the man she'd just beaten, and smiled bigger at the ten dollar bill he handed her. It wasn't much, but it would help to pay her beer tab, especially if she kept up the streak she seemed to be on. She usually played well, but tonight she seemed to be on fire. Nearly every ball went where she wanted it to, and she'd beaten the last four people she'd played.

Glancing up at the board, she called out the name on the top of the list.

"Ian!"

When the man walked up, she felt a powerful surge of the strangeness she'd been feeling all day. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed all in black. He pulled off his stocking cap and stuffed it in a back pocket, and his dark chin-length wavy hair fell loose, strands clinging to his short beard. He wore thin knit gloves with a large silver ring on one of the fingers. Sara frowned, trying to place the memory that image aroused, but it skittered away.

"Do I know you?" Sara asked, as she racked up the balls.

"I don't know," he asked, pulling a pool cue out of the rack in the wall. He twirled it quickly, then brought it to rest along the outside of his arm. "Do you?"

"Nope," she said and shrugged. "I guess not. I'm Sara. I'll be kicking your ass tonight."

The game was depressingly quick. Whatever luck had been with her had apparently fled. Ian worked the table like Sara had been doing all night, nearly every shot a perfect one. So much for kicking his ass, she thought.

Sara dug in her pocket for the ten she'd won off the previous guy. Handing it over, her hand touched her opponent's gloved one.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" he asked, reflected in the glass along side her.

A shadowed face peering over a wall, eyes bright with unshed tears.

Him sitting above her, again in the shadows, saying, "I love you in unguarded moments"

Eyes full of pain. "I did it to save your life."

Pulling his coat wide, jerking as the bullets hit him, turning to look at her one last time. 

His voice in her head, "If you ever see me again, Sara ... run."

Danny's face was sad. "You never truly know what someone's gonna do until they do it. Until the critical moment."

A cruel face, so much like the other one, but not, crushing her against him, promising her only more death.

"You bastard!" she yelled, yanking her hand back. "How could you leave me like that? You knew who would be next! You coward! You could die for me, but you couldn't live for me."

Sara stopped, shocked at the words she hadn't even known she was going to say. Then, she turned and ran out the door.

*****

Ian stood in front of his master's desk, eyes on the floor, perfectly still. He would stay like this until his master deigned to notice him, but, for once, Ian was grateful for the forced inactivity. 

He had felt something when Sara had touched him last night, but obviously nothing like what she had felt. He'd felt despair when she touched him, and anger, an echo along the invisible line that connected them to each other. He had met this woman, the Bladewielder, but twice now, yet he felt powerfully drawn to her. 

Ian's first duty was to Kenneth Irons, he knew that. He was sworn to serve his master, bound with chemicals, indoctrination, and a loyalty Ian chose to honour. And Irons was all he knew. Or had been, anyway.

His second duty was to Sara Pezzini and the Witchblade. He was bound to her by a connection forged over centuries of lifetimes together. They had not always loved, but they had always fought together, side by side. Irons had perverted this role to his own advantage. Ian knew that in a perfect world, there would be no master of him; he would be at the Wielder's side only.

But Irons had his own agenda with the Witchblade. Having worn it once, for only a moment, he was now bound to it, and desired it and the power it gave more than anything. He needed it, and a Bladewielder, to keep him young and powerful. Sara Pezzini was to be that Wielder.

"I must get her to come to me," his master said, and Ian snapped his attention back to the world outside his head. "Strategies?"

"Titillation, enigma, seduction, intimidation," Ian said, but with a growing sense of unease. Where had he heard those words before? "Temptation, abandonment, rejection, opposition"

Ian tapered off. He felt off-balance, as if the world had been jerked under his feet.

"And which of that stunning array do you think is most appropriate in these circumstances?" his master asked, amused.

Ian could feel Sara approaching; the link between them keeping him always aware of her location. Surprisingly, he found that he didn't want her near Irons. What his master planned was wrong. She was in the building now. She was coming here.

"Rejection," Ian said.

That might keep her away, at least for a time.

"No, not yet," his master said, "I must first bring her to me, then reject her. Patience, Ian. All in good time," Irons said soothingly. "You will continue your survail--" He broke off suddenly. "She's coming. Leave."

Sara was on this floor. Nottingham spun on his heel. So it was only this close that his master could feel the Witchblade's approach. Ian would remember that.

*****

When Sara had slept, she'd had awful dreams. She had dreamt death, horror, and fear. People she knew, people she didn't, all died.

The pool player, Ian, died, his coat flaring wide as he pretended to cross-draw guns he didn't have. The bullets hit him over and over in her mind, even when her eyes were open. And she was angry with him. A man she had just met infuriated her. One part of her knew that she didn't even know him, but the other part kept screaming: "The coward! He thought he was so tough, but he didn't have the guts to live. He knew what Irons would do next, but he still left me there to face it alone!"

It didn't make sense. Who was Irons? Who was Ian that he would sacrifice his life for her? What was going on in her head that she was seeing all this - a life that had never happened?

She called in sick.

"Yeah, Danny did, too," her captain, Joe Siri, said. "You two get some bad lunch or something?"

"I don't know, Captain," she answered. "I just can't make it in."

"All right," he said, "But first thing tomorrow, you come see me. There's something I need to talk to you about."

"Right," she said and hung up.

She got onto her motorcycle and rode. She didn't have to think when she was on her bike. It was all pressure and air, the street and the people. She criss-crossed the city for hours, exploring back alleys and abandoned warehouses, cruising the busy streets of the business district -- doing anything but thinking.

Finally, she noticed she'd driven by the same building three times in the twenty minutes. It was like she was unconsciously circling the place. Finally, after one more pass, she found a place to park.

It was the Vorschlag Industries building. Though she knew she'd never been here before, she felt like she had. Shrugging, Sara pushed through the revolving door into the lobby.

It was pretty impressive, she had to admit. Everything was brushed steel and high media. Televisions filled one wall, all showing the same news channel. Sara wandered over to the building's computer-based directory and scanned the listings. The penthouse. That's where she needed to go. Without trying to think about it, Sara got on the elevator and pushed the button. She was working on instinct. She could figure it out when she got there. Go with the flow.

The doors opened, and she was in a lobby of what looked like a busy executive floor. She'd been here before. Several times. But she knew at the same time she'd never set foot here before. Shaking her head, she pulled out her badge and headed for the receptionist's desk.

"I'm with the NYPD," she said, and was then struck with inspiration. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Irons, please."

"Yes, he's expecting you," the receptionist said, then pointed. "His office is just down the hall."

Interesting. _She_ hadn't even known she was coming here. How could he be expecting her?

She followed the direction the woman pointed. Halfway down the hall, someone stepped out in front of her. Stopping, she looked up.

"Ian?" she said, not quite believing her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I work for Mr. Irons, Sara," he said calmly.

"Oh," she said. She'd known that.How, she didn't know, but she did. "Look," she said. "About what I said--"

He cut her off.

"Don't tell him," he said.

"What?" she asked.

He pointed a gloved finger to the bracelet on her wrist and she thought she saw the stone shimmer again.

"Ask about that. It was in his collection at the Midtown Museum," he said, and stepped back through a door.

After a moment, Sara continued down the hall to the open door. Whatever it was with him, she could figure it out later.

"Detective Pezzini," a tall, thin man said as she entered. "I'm Kenneth Irons."

For some reason, she had expected him to be much older. Decrepit old. This guy looked to be somewhere in his thirties. In his gray, perfectly tailored suit, he just radiated "I'm _so_ good" vibes. Sara immediately decided she didn't like him.

"Mr. Irons, I'm told it was your collection that was destroyed at the Midtown Museum," Sara said. _Just_ told, yes, but she had been told.

"Yes," he said, with a small frown, then brightened. "Luckily, all of the pieces were quite well insured."

Sara held up her right wrist and pulled up her sleeve to fully expose the bracelet.

"Do you happen to know what this is?" she asked.

"The Witchblade," he said, and Sara felt a flash of déjà vu.

"'The Witchblade'?" Her feeling of déjà vu deepened. She spoke again, but felt like she was reading lines off the inside of her brain rather than just thinking them up right now. "Well, somehow during a shootout at the Midtown Museum, 'the Witchblade' happened to find its way onto my wrist. Does this belong to you?" she asked, and mentally spoke along with his answer

"Does anything really belong to anybody?"

"That's quite an evasive answer, Mr. Irons," she said, but knew he was going to answer that it belonged to her.

"If the Witchblade does belong to one person, it belongs to you," he said, his voice full of what he probably thought was charm but just gave her the creeps. He held out a business card. "Don't hesitate to call either number, any time. I'd love to show you some of my art. I have a whole room devoted to the Witchblade."

He smiled brightly at her as she took the card. She shook her head and turned. Moving toward the door, she suddenly remembered where she had seen Ian before the pool hall. 

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

She turned back around.

"I believe that one of your employees an Ian Nottingham," she said, finding his surname somewhere in her brain after a second, "Was a witness to the events at the museum. I'll need to speak to him."

"I'll see he gets the message," said Irons, still smiling.

*****

This was the one, Irons knew. This Wielder would be the one to be tractable, controllable, undemanding. Perhaps he would even take beautiful Sara for a lover. She was quite stunning, with her deep brown hair and her striking green eyes. And she had a spark inside her. He'd enjoy quenching that.

With his ever-faithful Ian to keep an eye on her, Sara Pezzini would be no trouble at all.

He turned on his speakerphone and hit a programmed number. It answered.

"Go to her," he said. "Tonight."

*****

He stood outside her door. Ian couldn't make himself knock. It wasn't his way. His way was always the back way, the hidden way, the unknown way. But she didn't want that, Ian knew. She wanted answers, not more questions. _He_ wanted answers. So he was at the front door.

Before he could decide what to do, he heard locks being undone, and the door jerked open. Seeing him, Sara spun, took off her jacket, and dropped it and her motorcycle helmet on the kitchen table. She turned to face him.

"Well?" she said testily. "Come in."

After a brief pause, Ian entered and closed the door behind him. He'd never actually been in her home when she had been there. He'd broken in several times, trying to learn what he could about this Wielder, but it was a different place with her in it. More real.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Sara suddenly snapped. "And skip the mysterioso crap. Why?" she asked, her voice and face distraught. "How could you just --" She stopped and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was calm. "Sorry, I keep seeing"

"What do you see, Sara?" Ian asked, taking a step toward her.

He wanted to know what it was that could cause her this much distress in his presence. Why she was acting as if they'd met more than these few times. Why he didn't want to tell his master about any of this. Why it was all he could do not reach out to touch her hair.

"You " she began hesitantly, "You died. You warned me -- in the most cryptic way possible, I might add," she said, her voice getting increasingly angrier, "Then you killed yourself. Oh, you probably didn't think of it that way -- you probably used the word 'sacrifice' or 'martyr' or something like that -- but that's exactly what you did." She stalked forward until she was only inches from him. "I know damn well they never -- _never_ -- could have hit you if you hadn't wanted them to. You let them kill you."

She just glared at him. He needed to see what she did. He had an idea that might work, but he wasn't sure. He didn't know how strong the connection was between them.

He grabbed her arm before she could decide to move. As she began to pull away from him, he forcibly pulled her back to him, turning her so her back was against his chest and she was trapped against him.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he said as she struggled against his grip. "I need to see."

He interlaced the gloved fingers of his right hand with hers, and the world exploded.

*****

A pale face on a gurney. "Shadows of the valley ... to fear evil ... black dragon ... fearless"

Lips close to hers, trying to hide her revulsion. "What I want ... is the pleasure of rejecting you ... as you once rejected me."

A voice in the dark: "Relax, Sara. I would do anything to please you."

Angry eyes and a growling voice: "Did anyone ask you why you got whisked into this job over several candidates who were actually qualified?"

"If you come with me willingly, I can serve you both ... if you will not, one of us will die," he said, full of a quiet desperation.

Sara roughly pulled her hand from Ian's and scrambled away. Ian, his eyes at once shocked, horrified, and frightened, dropped to the floor with a thud. His head bounced once, then he was still. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sara prodded him with her foot. He didn't move.

She _should_ see if he was hurt, but right now, she didn't really care. For what he had made her see, he deserved to lie on her floor with a possible head injury. And if he didn't have one, she might give him one.

The images threatened to overwhelm her again, but she brutally pushed them aside. She'd seen all of them before, in her dreams, but with Ian touching her, it had been like feedback. The visions were doubled in their force, making the horror at every loss, every death, even stronger. 

She set herself to making coffee. It was simple and she didn't have to think while doing it. She ignored the shaking of her hands as she heated the water and measured out the grounds. Finally, as she poured a mug, she heard stirring behind her. When she turned, putting her cup down on the counter, Ian was just standing up.

"So did you _see_?" she asked bitterly.

He turned as if to leave. Sara darted around him and stood in front of the door.

"Don't you dare," she warned. He stopped in front of her, his head down and shoulders slumped. "Look at me," she said. He stayed still. "Look at me!" she demanded, loudly this time. He didn't move. "Ian, please. Every time I see that I think I'm going crazy. I need --" She stopped herself. How did she know what she needed? She probably needed Thorazine. "I'm sorry," she said, and moved from in front of the door. "Go."

After a fractional moment of hesitation, he left.

*****

Ian _had_ seen, probably more than she. Not only had he seen the images she saw, but it seemed to trigger a flood of his own.

"She's everything you said she'd be," he said into the phone.

A moment of boldness: "I suspect Sara Pezzini's a more worthy vessel than we - you - give her credit for."

Anger. "Don't come home without the blade."

A hated form, writhing on the floor. "Hollow words, Ian."

Beautiful green eyes filled with disgust. "Freak."

Pain flaring through him. "You gave me life. It's yours to take back. I would consider it a mercy."

He shivered as snow began to fall. From the roof across from Sara's window, he could see her, her motorcycle ride forgotten, getting ready for bed. Heavily, she sat on her narrow bed, then dropped her head into her hands. Her shoulders began to shake, but Ian couldn't tell whether it was from tears or laughter. Laughter, he hoped. She wouldn't cry over him, he knew.

Freak.

He settled into a more comfortable position. He would at least stay until she slept.

He didn't doubt what he saw in his own mind, or Sara's. That had been an entirely different future from the moment he had begun to feel odd outside the Rialto. She, let alone him, had never been supposed to remember a thing, but, nonetheless, they had.

He pulled his coat wide, knowing they would think him armed. As the bullets hit, he tried to stand as long as he could, but the pain from so many shots brought him to his knees.

How could he have done that? Not die for her, he had always been prepared to do that. If he outlived her, then he had failed. But he -- that other one in the other future -- had left her to a worse fate. Irons had other Ians -- clones -- but each was slightly different. He heard Dr. Immo and his master talking about them sometimes, when they forgot he was there. The others were stronger, faster, more viscous than he was. They weren't as tractable as he unfortunately knew himself to be. How could that Ian he saw in his head let Sara be alone to face one of the others, knowing what they were like? 

In a way, he had to admit, it was a relief to see the other future. He finally had his proof that he couldn't serve both Irons and the Wielder. He knew his master's plan; he'd always known it. Ian was to help lure Sara in and then Irons would utilize her blood and the Blade to keep himself powerful and protected. Ian had been trying to find a way to compromise, to bring Sara in, but to get her to agree, to keep her safe. He didn't want to see her frozen in an ignoble death like Elizabeth Bronte, the last Bladewielder Irons had ensnared.

He could see now that he had to make a choice. What was it that Sara had said in the pool hall? "You could die for me, but you couldn't live for me."

With the benefit of a failed future to guide him, the choice was simple: he would live for her.

*****

The next day, Sara went into work, even though she didn't feel like it. Her night had not been restful at all. After she had cried -- something she rarely did -- she had laid down, but been unable to sleep. The visions had kept her eyes open in the dark, fearful of what worse might come if she closed them. She had found, gradually, that she could control what she saw, how she saw it. And what she saw amazed her.

She had lived a whole different future. Several months played themselves forward in her mind. She had wanted to disbelieve, but it was all true. She just knew. The Witchblade, this crazy bracelet she'd found on her wrist, had given her another chance. A chance to do better, or at least different. This time, she promised herself, she wouldn't let them all die. She should just kill Irons and nip it in the bud.

But it wasn't that easy. If he would use her, maybe she could use him.

Right now, though, she had to get on with _this_ life.

She poked her head into Joe Siri's office. He was on the phone, but he motioned her in. Sara shut the door and took a seat. After a moment, he hung up. Sara could guess what this conversation was going to be about. She decided to beat him to the punch.

"Retirement, Joe?" she asked.

"How'd you know about that?" he asked, surprised.

"You know how fast bad news travels around here," she said, shrugging.

"Yeah, well, Marie and I thought " he trailed off as he looked at her raised eyebrows.

"Dante's taking over," she said. It wasn't a question.

"How --?" Joe began, but Sara cut him off.

"He's dirty, Joe, and you know it!" she hissed.

Joe's eyes flicked to the closed door and back to her, then dropped his voice to a whisper. "How do you know about that?"

Joe's tired voice saying, "Sara, I'm out of it. I escaped with my life. I am** out** of it."

Marie, standing on the doorstep, turning her back on Sara.

Danny's wife turning away with blame in her eyes.

"Never mind," Sara said. She wouldn't let it happen again. "I'll miss you."

"I'll still be around, Pez." He shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "Now," he said, his tone businesslike. "I'm sticking Jake McCartey with you and Danny. I don't want any arguments. He needs training and you two are going to give it to him."

"OK," Sara said.

"What? No complaining?" he asked skeptically.

"Nope. I think Jake is going to be one hell of a detective," she said. He already had undercover work down pat, after all.

Sara headed across the hall to her office. Jake was already in there with Danny, playing the earnest young rookie. He was an undercover FBI agent sent to expose corrupt cops, but that was something she could deal with later. Right now she was more worried about going crazy from the Witchblade.

They turned to look at her.

"You hear?" Danny asked, gesturing at the surfer-boy-turned-special-agent.

"Yep." She looked closer at her partner. "You look like crap," she told him.

He just shrugged. He really did look awful; his skin was ashen and he had dark circles under his eyes. But he was alive, Sara reminded herself. That was the important part.

*****

This was the part of undercover work that Jake hated most: lying to people he liked. Danny Woo and Sara Pezzini were good cops. He'd suspected them for a while of being corrupt, like much of the rest of their department, but he knew better now. He'd needed to test them, and the info about Gallo had been the bait. When they hadn't taken it, Jake was relieved. He could understand why Sara would want to kill Gallo -- he had murdered her father, Jake was as sure of that as she was -- but she had never done anything more than harass the hit man, and Jake could understand that.

Jake knew he was in the middle of making a big mistake. He was falling for Sara. That was going to make his job even more complicated. Not telling her the truth and having to play the know-nothing rookie was going to be a blow to his pride as well as ruining any chance of a real relationship with her.

Which, all considered, was probably for the best. He was here to work, not fool around. He was doing a difficult and important job. His superiors had hand-picked him and had every belief that he would succeed in bringing down the White Bulls.

Why did that not make him feel better about missing out on Sara?

*****

Ian knew that Dr. Immo had always liked him. His master's pet geneticist was proud of Ian as a successful project, but he also seemed to just like him. Immo wasn't afraid of him, and Ian could use that to his advantage now. In addition, Ian often visited the lab secreted in the basement of Irons' home, so his appearance here wouldn't elicit surprise.

"Ian, hello," the doctor said, opening the door for him. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, Dr. Immo," Ian lied. 

He wasn't doing well. He was about to perform an active act of sabotage. There was a war going on inside his head, and he didn't feel well at all. He'd never tested his ingrained loyalty to Irons like this before.

"I came to see the others," he told the doctor, and went past him into the lab.

"You know Mr. Irons doesn't like that," Immo said, frowning. "I don't either. You're better than they are. You shouldn't think of them."

"They're all I have," Ian answered, and, in a way, it was true.

These clones were the closest thing he had to a family. He had some of Elizabeth Bronte's cells in his brain, but that wasn't enough to make her -- or Sara -- his family, no matter what he sometimes wanted to believe. The other clones may be all he had, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't destroy them to keep Sara safe.

"All right," the doctor sighed. "Lock up when you leave."

The doctor left, and Ian closed the door behind him. He made his way through the sterile white room, the first thing he really remembered that was his. Memories from other Ian Nottinghams before him had echoed in his head, but his _own_ first memory, ten years ago, was of this white, cold room.

He pushed his way through a heavy door at the opposite end of the lab, and was in a room that swirled in mist. There were four tables, each with a body on it that looked very similar to his. He didn't look too closely; he wasn't sure he wanted to see them again before he killed them.

The door opened in, and there was a thin pipe right near the doorway. Ian had always thought this was an unwise design, but now, he was glad. With the palm of his hand, he pushed against the pipe, easily crushing it. With any luck, it would look like the door had opened into it.

It would take several hours for the mist to dissipate. When it did, the others would begin to decay rapidly. Ian knew that they wouldn't wake, but that didn't stop a shudder from crawling up his spine. It was better for them this way, he reminded himself. They were free now.

His choice was now irreversible. He had betrayed his master. Eventually, he knew, he would have to pay a price.

*****

It had been several days now that Sara, Danny, and Jake had been working as a team and it had gone surprisingly well. Danny, though not pleased with the situation, was a good teacher, better than Sara ever could be. Jake, federal agent or not, must still be learning something.

Tommy Gallo's body had been found in a hotel room the night before. Most of it, anyway. They still hadn't been able to find his eyes. Sara knew she should feel relief at his death, but she didn't. She'd wanted him to pay for what he did, in jail. Though honestly, with all the Witchblade weirdness going on, she'd forgotten all about him.

And, more importantly, Sara was worried about Danny. He seemed to be getting sicker every day. Today, he had added a cough to his gray skin and sunken eyes. She had bugged him to go to the doctor, but his response had been to start calling her "Mom." Now, he was waiting in the car, having finally admitted that a hacking cough was not conducive to sneaking around.

Today had been Captain Bruno Dante's first day, and Sara had thought it best that she, Danny, and Jake spent it out of the precinct. She wasn't sure that she could look that creep in the face without spitting in it. Luckily, they'd gotten an anonymous tip that a suspect in an old case had been spotted, so she didn't even have to make anything up. They'd headed down to the warehouse they'd gotten the report about, and, after Jake helped convince Danny to stay put, she and the pretend rookie headed in.

It looked like a former machine shop. Rusting hulks of old equipment dotted the floor and dim light streamed in through the high, grimy windows. Taking out her gun, she pointed Jake to the left and she went right. She sidled down the wall.

She felt the Witchblade tighten and tingle on her wrist, but no vision came. This had happened yesterday, and, soon after, she had spotted Ian, tailing her home. He had _wanted_ her to see him, she knew. If he didn't want to, she would never have been able to find him. While she hadn't been thrilled to know he was following her, she hadn't felt threatened, either. Sara looked around for the black-clad man now.

"Ian!" she whispered. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

He stepped out from behind a concrete pillar and shifted his eyes toward the entrance then toward the other side of a nearby machine. _Two people. One by the door, one over there._

Sara nodded and tried not to wonder why she'd known exactly what he meant. It was almost as if she'd heard him in her head, but she couldn't really believe that.

His eyes seeking hers. "If you ever see me again, Sara ... run."

Sara shook her head at the memory. She could worry about ESP later. She had to catch these guys.

Ian stepped back into the shadows, and Sara advanced around the machine, her gun at the ready. As she was nearly at the corner, she heard a hacking cough echo through the warehouse, then the sharp retort of a gun. The Witchblade stung on her wrist.

Danny on the ground, blood all over his chest.

Sara turned and ran back to the entrance. She found what she had feared. Crouching next to her partner, she dropped her gun and pressed her hands on the wound on his chest.

"No you don't, Danny. Don't you die on me," she said. She quickly scanned the area around them. "Jake!" she yelled.

Moments later, the federal agent came skidding around a machine. When he saw Danny on the ground, Jake froze.

"Take off your jacket," she told him. He stood there, his mouth open. "Jake! Take off your jacket!"

After a long moment, Jake holstered his gun and struggled out of his denim jacket. Sara snatched it from his hands and balled it up in her bloody hands. She pressed it to Danny's chest as he began to cough again.

"Sara," Danny said between the coughs, his lips dotted with red spots.

"Shhh," she said. "You just keep quiet. You're going to be fine." She glanced quickly up at Jake. "Well, call it in, rookie!"

A smile tugged at the corner of Danny's lips. He coughed again and specks of blood peppered Sara's arms. She could hear Jake calling dispatch on his cell phone, but she just focused on Danny.

"Karma," her partner rasped, and Sara felt tears come to her eyes.

Like the man said: "Karma."

"Sara, they're on their way," Jake said, and Sara shook her head.

"Come here," she said, and Jake knelt beside her. "Keep pressure on it."

Sara stood and strode away into the dark of the warehouse.

"Hey, where are you going?" Jake called after her.

Sara ignored him and urged the Witchblade to gauntlet her arm. Before it did, a shot whizzed past her, and she felt a sudden stinging on her thigh.

His voice echoing strangely in the alley. "To fully grasp the Witchblade, you must first spill some of your own blood."

Sara smiled grimly as the gauntlet snicked into place. Heading to the spot from where the gun had been fired, the Blade extended and Sara thrust forward. She met a soft resistance and heard a moan. Yanking the Blade back, she stepped between two pillars and swung the Blade around, slicing through the chest of the man who had been coming up behind her.

She heard movement and spun around. Ian stood there, the point of the Blade at his throat. The sound of sirens broke the silence, and Sara lowered the Blade.

"Go," Ian said softly. "I'll take care of this."

"Why are you helping me?" she asked, and let the Blade retract to a bracelet.

"Because the other one didn't," he said simply. "Go."

He crouched down and heaved one of the bodies over his shoulder. Sara turned and walked slowly back toward the entrance. She knew she was already too late.

Like the man said, " karma."

*****

It had been several days since Ian's act of rebellion, and he grew easier about it every moment. Immo had obviously been suspicious when he discovered the clones, but he hadn't said anything to Irons. Ian was grateful. Most of the time, he liked the doctor and he didn't want to have to kill him. After the decaying bodies had been found, Irons had sat silently for several hours. Ian had stood in front of him, his head down and eyes closed, waiting for the accusation to come, but it never had.

Eventually, Irons had stood and walked toward him. He'd paused in front of Ian, but then continued past. Ian had heard him stop again at the door.

"Why are you here?" he had asked coldly. "Watch Sara Pezzini."

Relieved, Ian had gladly done as he was told. He had followed her and, after two attempts on her life, gone to see Gallo, who he knew was behind it. When Gallo hadn't wanted to see reason, Ian had made sure he wouldn't see anything ever again. Ian was a little surprised by his own brutality, but for what the mobster had tried to do to Sara, Ian didn't mind taking out some of his frustration on him.

He'd shown himself to Sara only once. He'd expected her to be angry with him for shadowing her, but she wasn't. What she had felt, he couldn't tell. Acceptance, maybe. No surprise.

When he had seen her walking into the trap in the warehouse, he had to help her. She again hadn't been surprised, but had looked for him. But he had known, once the shot had been fired, how things would end. The Witchblade had bided its time, waiting for Sara to use it. When she didn't it had played a card its Wielder couldn't resist: the death of her partner.

Karma.

As he watched her walk away from him now, knowing that her partner lay dead, Ian could barely restrain himself from following after her. He wanted to comfort her, but knew that what he was doing now would mean more to her than any attempt to make her feel better. If toting corpses would help, then that's what he would do.

*****

Jake had tried to make Sara leave with him after the funeral. He didn't want her to be alone, but he knew she probably needed it. He'd lost a partner, too; that was one of the reasons he'd been chosen to go to New York in the first place -- no one needed him.

But Sara had insisted on staying, so Jake had driven just far enough away to make it seem like he had left, then parked the car where he could keep an eye on her. She'd stood in the snow for hours, looking like she was waiting for someone, but no one ever came. He did notice that he wasn't the only one watching her.

A man in a black coat with a fur collar stood behind a tree, unmoving except for once. After a couple of hours, Sara sat heavily down on the ground in the snow, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head down. It didn't take a genius to figure out that she was crying. The man in black had taken one step toward Sara, his hand out, before he stopped, and after a long moment, moved back again. Jake didn't know who the guy was, but it didn't look like he meant Sara any harm, so he left him alone. That didn't mean he didn't feel a stab of jealousy at the obvious concern the man had for her. 

When Sara finally stood and left, the stranger left, too. Jake followed her home, just to make sure she got there all right, but didn't bother her. She needed to be alone with her grief for a while. He'd visit in a few days, but he needed to get back to his own investigation.

*****

Ian reluctantly made his way to Irons' study. He had not wanted to leave Sara alone and unguarded when she was so hurt and confused. Two days he had spent on the roof of the building next to hers, watching her pace, watch television, and toss in fitful sleep. The periculum was coming -- Ian could feel it, though how or why, he didn't know -- and Irons had called him away.

"Where have you been?" Irons demanded, as Ian closed the doors behind him.

Ian took up his customary subservient stance just outside the circle of firelight.

"I was watching Sara Pezzini, as you directed," he said, keeping his voice calm, though he seethed inside.

"And?" Irons asked, settling back in his chair slightly.

"She is unwell," he said carefully. "I believe the test is at hand."

"Do you?" Irons snarled. "I sense no such imminence." 

Ian felt himself begin to smile and stopped himself in time. Irons' confidence in his connection to the Witchblade seemed to be on the wane. With Ian's own growing independence, this small man he used to think of as his master was unraveling. He kept silent.

Suddenly, Irons sucked in a sharp breath and his back arched painfully in the chair. His eyes were angry when he finally regained control of his body.

"How did you know?" Irons hissed.

His body contorted again. Ian didn't say anything.

"Leave me," Irons snarled. "It's what you want anyway."

Bitterness. "Go to her. She needs you. I don't. Go on. It's what you want anyway. "

Ian started at the familiar words, but did as he was told. It _was_ true. It was what he wanted.

*****

She had waited alone in the cold for three hours after the funeral, hoping for Danny's ghost to show. Only when it started to snow did Sara leave, more depressed than she had believed possible. She'd hoped that, since he had come back in the other future, he would again.

She'd taken some leave this time. Dante had cheerfully signed her request form, but she didn't even have the energy to hate him for it. It wasn't just Danny's death, but everything else as well. She'd hoped she would be able to use what she learned from the other future, but when she'd been unable to prevent Danny's death, the true weight of that knowledge had come crashing down.

There was just so much she was responsible for now: the White Bulls, Dominique Boucher, Karen Bronte, Conchobar, the druid sacrifices, Father Bellamy and the whatever-the-hell it had been that had killed him, the Black Dragons, the Issacs, Gabriel Bowman, Jake, Ian -- however many of him there were, and, last but not least, Kenneth Irons.

Sara collapsed into bed. She felt like her brain was wrapped in cotton balls. She had too many thoughts, to many memories of things that had never happened, but at the same time, had.

She was nearly asleep when she felt the Witchblade tingle and tendrils begin to slide over her body. She sighed, but didn't fight. She wasn't afraid this time. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them, she was in the gray space again. Joan of Arc, Cathain, and Elizabeth Bronte stood ranged in front of her. She relaxed at the sight of them. This must be the periculum this time.

"Congratulations, Sara," Elizabeth said. "You've learned how to control time."

Sara shook her head. "Not control it. _Use_ it maybe," she said, then her shoulders slumped. "But not well enough. Danny still died."

"You're not a god," Joan said gently. "Some things are meant to be."

"Karma," Sara scoffed. "But where is he? Why can't I see him?"

"You would trap him again?" Cathain asked her. "You would keep him from the peace he has earned?"

"Is that what I did?" she asked, appalled. The looks on their faces was answer enough. "I .. I didn't know."

"Do you know why you're here, Sara?" Elizabeth asked her after a moment.

"It's a test. But I know my task: to cleanse the world," she said. "I'm not anywhere near done. I haven't even started. I don't know _where_ to start."

"This test is different," Cathain said.

"There are different things for you to learn now," Joan told her.

"Are you willing?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, of course," Sara answered, her head swiveling to each one as they spoke.

"There are greater risks than death, Sara," Joan said. "Will you accept help when it is offered? Will you accept responsibility for those who are yours?"

"Can you?" Cathain asked.

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, confused by the apparent sudden change in topic.

Cathain smiled at her. "Who can you trust?"

Danny's face was sad. "You never truly know what someone's gonna do until they do it. Until the critical moment."

"Can you take the gift you're given?" Elizabeth asked. "We -- you -- were not always so lucky."

"Why are you helping me?" she asked.

"Because the other one didn't," he said, and shrugged.

"Ian?" Sara asked incredulously. "But he's --"

"Always with us," Joan interrupted.

"If only you will see," Cathain said, and her face was sad.

"You didn't," Sara said, sure of the answer.

"I believed that only with a crown came honor, strength, and fidelity," she said sadly. "It is not so."

"But you told me I could get Conchobar back," Sara said, remembering the other periculum.

"You can," Cathain said. "You have, if you want to. Do you want to?"

Sara opened her mouth to say "yes," but stopped. Did she really? That other Sara in that other future had loved the Irishman with all of her heart and body, but did she now? _Could_ she now, with the weight of the world on her? Would a wonderful but feckless musician be the best choice as her partner?

"I I don't know," she said finally.

Joan smiled at her. "The Witchblade may be capricious, difficult, and unkind," she said, "But in this one instance it is not. You need not be alone unless you choose it."

"Look into yourself -- all your selves," Cathain urged. "Don't forget: We're all one. So is he. Be he ally, champion, friend, or lover, he is always there."

"Open your eyes, Sara," Elizabeth said. "Sometimes that's risk enough."

"Ian?" Sara asked, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. "We're talking about the same guy here, right? Tall, dark, and dangerous? Has this fetish for black clothes and gaudy silver jewelry? Couldn't get a straight answer out of him if you used a corkscrew?"

"Oh, Sara, just try," Elizabeth said, and the fondness in her eyes was almost embarrassing to see.

"Ian?" she asked again, but found she was talking to herself, alone in her apartment.

She turned her right arm over. The Blade was a part of her now.

And again.

*****

Irons sat and stared into the embers of the dying fire.

The periculum had been too soon. The Witchblade could not have had enough time to decide Sara's worthiness. From his research, it should have taken at least five uses for the Blade to make that determination. Ian had only reported two uses of the Blade, and that was all that his own connection to the Blade had shown as well.

Something was very wrong.

He could barely feel the Witchblade now that that periculum was over. However, he hesitated to have Ian continue his near-constant surveillance of the Wielder. His servant had seemed far to pleased with his assignment.

Perhaps it was time for a reminder of who his master really was.

*****

Sara hummed on her way up the elevator. Irons had called her at 9:00 this morning and essentially summoned her to his office. Normally, she would have told him exactly where he could stuff his summons, but she had woken in a wonderful mood. For the first time since she'd acquired the Witchblade, she had slept well. She felt fantastic today -- exhilarated, like she was falling in love. With whom or what, she wasn't sure. Herself, maybe, or the Witchblade, or the world -- she really didn't care. The feeling would go away soon enough; she wasn't going to hurry it by analyzing it.

The elevator doors opened and she looked out onto the tightest butt she had ever seen. It's male owner was bent over, picking up papers from the floor. As Sara walked past, she mentally reached out and gave the butt a hearty smack, grinning as she did so.

"Sara," she heard behind her.

She turned, and the man picking up the papers straightened. It was Ian Nottingham. She grinned.

"Ian," she said, mimicking his stoic expression.

She turned as he came to walk beside her. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. This was who she was supposed to trust? Well, she decided, at least he wasn't bad to look at, if she had to be connected to him. A nice ass wasn't a bad qualification for some sort of mystical soulmate.

They reached the doors of the office, and they opened by themselves. Just as she was about to enter, Ian turned to face her. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. In her head, she swore she heard: _I felt that._

Sara burst out laughing. Ian turned on his heel and walked away, moving his hips maybe a bit more than was strictly necessary. Sara backed into Irons' office and watched him until the doors shut again of their own accord. Maybe there was something to this connection after all.

"Hey, Kenny," she said as she turned to face the billionaire. "What's up?"

For an instant, Sara could have sworn she saw fury in his face, but she couldn't be sure. His face composed itself into one of mild amusement.

"Ah, Sara," he said, his voice oily with allure. "Why the good mood?"

"It's a good day to be alive," she said and plopped herself down in a chair in front of the desk. "Now, whatcha' want?"

"I have some more information about the Witchblade that I thought you might like to know," he said, as if he were offering her the biggest present in the world.

"Like what?" she asked and put her feet up on his desk.

He definitely didn't look happy now.

"Past Bladewielders were--" he began, but Sara cut him off.

"Cathain the war goddess, Joan of Arc, and Elizabeth Bronte, World War II superspy, just to name a few," she said, smiling sweetly. 

Irons' face froze. She could all but hear the little gears grinding in his head.

"There is other information I --" he started again, less certain than before.

"Like what?" Sara asked, her good mood starting to dissolve. "Like it abandons its Wielder in her time of greatest need? Like visions are part of the deal? Like there's a great test? Like my life will never, ever be normal again, thanks to you?"

There was a long pause before Irons turned on his fake smile again.

"I can see that you are already well-informed. But I'm sure there's still much I can tell you," he said.

"You know what?" Sara said, swinging her feet down and standing. "I'll find out for myself."

*****

"Ian!" Irons bellowed.

After a moment, the object of his wrath appeared, his head bowed obediently, but his stance easy and casual. Irons reined in his temper. Ian knew his moods, and Irons didn't want to risk disobedience in this.

It was obvious that Ian, instead of watching Sara, had been teaching her about the Witchblade. There was no way that such a new Wielder could know so much otherwise. Fortunately, Irons had planned for such a contingency.

"I wish to know where the lovely Sara is getting her information on the Witchblade," he said calmly. Ian turned to go. As he reached the door, Irons spoke again. "Please see Dr. Immo first, though. He has something for you."

Ian continued through the door, his walk slightly less confident than before.

Good.

*****

Ian made his way to the house on Faust Street. He had been tempted to disobey Irons in this, but he didn't want to risk tipping his hand too soon. Since the doctor was no real threat, he went.

When he pushed though the door, Immo looked up from a microscope.

"Ian, please sit down," he said, motioning to a chair near him. "And roll up your sleeve."

Ian stayed where he was. He was tired of having his brain tinkered with. Rolling up his sleeve meant an injection, and an injection meant more drugs to pacify and control him. Now that he finally felt free, he was not going to willingly submit to chains again.

Immo must have seen the refusal in his face, because he reached under the counter. Ian expected a gun, but there was only a soft click.

A high pitched screech filled the air, the lights began to strobe, and Ian fell to the floor.

*****

Something was wrong. Sara could feel it, but couldn't place it. The Witchblade stayed stubbornly unhelpful, its red stone dark and still. She stalked around her apartment, her nerves screaming with tension that they couldn't release. It was sleeting, so she couldn't take a motorcycle ride, and she'd already worked out until she was about ready to collapse.

She finally decided to risk the ride anyway. She didn't particularly relish the idea of the dangerous and cold conditions, but she couldn't hang around anymore, feeling like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She pulled her hair into a rough ponytail, dressed in her leathers, grabbed her helmet, and yanked open her front door.

Ian, who had been leaning against it, fell toward her.

"Jesus!" she yelled, and caught him just before he knocked her over. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

She pushed him away, his wet, cold clothes dripping on the floor. He lifted his head and the other shoe finally dropped. The Witchblade flared to life.

Stumbling through the cold, forcing himself in one direction, the only direction he knew to go.

His knees buckled and Sara lunged forward to grab him. Kicking the door shut, and with his stumbling help, she got him to the couch. He collapsed heavily, his soaked hair plastered to his pale face. Sara stood in front of him, her hands on her hips.

"You walked all the way here?" Sara asked.

Ian nodded weakly, then leaned his head back against the couch. He began to shiver, as if now that he was inside, it was ok to be cold.

Can you take the gift you're given? We -- you -- were not always so lucky.

"Some gift," she muttered, then sighed. "Come on, you've got to get out of those clothes. Then you can tell me what's going on," she said and reached for the buttons of his shirt.

He pushed her hands away. Wrapping his arms around himself and dropping his chin down to his chest, he shivered even more.

"Oh, you're so tough you'd rather die of hypothermia than let me help you?" Sara snapped.

He shook his head and mumbled something Sara couldn't hear.

"What?" she asked irritably.

"Don't touch me," he said, his voice strained.

"You don't want my help?" Sara asked, trying to keep her annoyance in check. "Can you get out of them by yourself?" He shook his head. "Fine," she said. "Freeze to death, but don't do it on my couch."

With another convulsive shudder, he held out his bare hand. Sara took it, thinking to help him up and out of her apartment. The moment she touched his cold skin, though, it felt like she'd fallen inside his head.

He wasn't afraid. He knew he should be, but he wasn't. Drugs. Dr. Immo must have given him something. He tried to see if he was restrained, but his hands and feet seemed too far away. He felt heavy, too heavy, like gravity was twice what it should be.

No. Not again. He had been **so** close.

A low voice spoke on the edges of his hearing. He could only make out a few words, but he knew that all of them were being registered somewhere in his brain.

Body humiliation filth no disgusting naked no touch shame repulsive no unclean no no no 

There was a screen in front of him, flashing pictures faster and faster. He tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn there anyway.

Naked bodies, strewn across a field. Blood. Sara's face. Whipped skin. Blood. Sara's face. Blood. Blood. Blood

He ripped his eyes away from the images, trying to will himself not to accept them. He held his hands to his ears, trying to block out the voice. Crying out, he forced himself out of the chair, falling hard to the concrete floor.

Yanking her hand back, Sara harshly let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding.

She'd gotten used to the Witchblade's visions by now; they were like watching something on a TV screen. This had been like actually being inside Ian's head and body, feeling as well as seeing. Ian let his hand drop to his lap, seemingly exhausted.

Mind control, she realized. Irons must have been trying to manipulate Ian's mind, like what had been done to the Black Dragons. Irons said they'd used drugs to try to make them the perfect soldiers.

Lethal and loyal.

This wasn't about making the perfect soldier, though. This was just about control of the most appalling kind. To make him ashamed of his own body, his own self No wonder Ian hid from the world under all those black clothes. Whatever Ian was to the Witchblade, Irons obviously knew and was twisting Ian away from that -- and from her. Sara didn't like to see anyone deprived of the right to make their own choices, and she didn't think that Ian had been given much choice in anything, ever.

"OK," she said finally. "But you still need to get out of those clothes. Go to the bathroom and take them off. I'll get you a blanket, and you can warm up in my bed."

Carefully touching him only where his soaked clothes covered his skin, Sara helped him up and to the bathroom. She got a blanket from her bed and, when the door opened a crack, handed it through. Ian came out, completely covered, and Sara tried to ignore his discomfort. He all but ran past her to get to the bed.

Gathering up Ian's few clothes to put in the dryer in the basement, she tried to figure out what to do next. Sara didn't think that Irons would let Ian go so easily. No doubt, Irons was already looking for him. And here would be one of the first places he looked.

*****

Irons stood next to the empty chair. Ian was supposed to be occupying it. From the state of the door -- ripped completely off its hinges -- it would seem that his devoted servant was no longer quite so devoted. He had had his suspicions, but he had nothing concrete until this. Once Dr. Immo had confessed that Ian had been in the lab just before the clones were destroyed, Irons had known that Ian would not be coming back to him of his own accord.

That didn't matter. Irons had other tools to return him. Likely, Ian would not be in his prime. The drugs alone would have confused him, but the uncertainty from the additional indoctrination would be helpful as well. After all, it wasn't as if Irons couldn't guess to whom Ian had crawled.

Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, he dialed a number.

"Dante," a rough voice said.

"Captain," Irons said, "I have a task I think you will enjoy."

*****

He had the blankets up to his chin when Sara finally came back upstairs. His clothes had dried quickly -- they were all far to thin too be wearing in the winter. She put the small pile on the edge of the bed and retreated to lean against the window sill across from the bed.

Sara still wasn't sure why she felt like she had to help Ian. From what she knew of him, he was Irons' pet assassin, and had few redeeming qualities. He killed without compunction and served -- knowingly -- someone who wanted to control her and the Witchblade. Ian had helped her a few times, both in this life and the other one, but she basically knew nothing about him.

On the other hand, according to the other Bladewielders, Ian was as much a part of the whole deal as she was, whether she -- or he -- liked it or not. She had to admit that she didn't feel as much animosity toward him as she had in the other future. Maybe it was because he was the only one who remembered it. Maybe it was because his death still felt like a punch in the stomach every time she thought about it. Maybe it was because she was nuts.

Whatever the reason, she felt like she had to help him. The last thing she needed was one more person to save, but Ian seemed to have put himself on the list. He watched her from the bed with obvious anxiety.

"Feeling better?" she asked

"I should leave," he said in answer, but didn't move. "I've put you in danger. I shouldn't have come."

"_We_ should leave," Sara corrected. "Look, I don't know exactly what's going on, but I know that whatever Irons did to you was because of me. So it's my responsibility. _You're_ my responsibility." She nodded at his clothes. "Get dressed. We've got to get out of here."

He didn't move. Sara didn't need any sort of psychic connection to him to know that he had no intention of doing so while she was watching. She'd already decided, though, that she wasn't going to coddle him in this. Whatever Irons had tried to do to him, Sara wasn't going to give it time to take hold if there was any way she could help it. She waited.

"I can't," he said finally.

"You will," Sara said angrily, and moved stand next to him. "Irons can't control you forever." At the stricken look on his face, his eyes huge with hurt, she gentled. "You made it here, didn't you? Do you want to let him win?"

He just pulled the covers up another inch. Sara raised her eyebrows and reached for the blanket, intending to yank it off him. With a movement she didn't even see, he grabbed her wrist before she even got close.

After a few seconds, Ian pressed her fist against his cheek. His eyes were tightly closed and Sara could see his muscles tense. Relaxing her hand, she extended her fingers, feeling the roughness of his short beard against her palm. Ian shuddered and quickly let her go. After a moment, she slowly pulled her hand away.

His smooth muscular chest was exposed now, but he didn't make any move to cover himself up. Sara didn't delude herself that whatever indoctrination he'd gotten about his body was fixed now, but at least he'd tried. Sara moved back across the room and turned her back.

After a few moments, she heard him move behind her.

*****

It sounded so easy.

"Get dressed."

But it wasn't. Irons had spent years carefully instilling this shame into Ian. He found his own body disgusting and didn't even like to look at it himself. That's why he always covered himself up so thoroughly. Rationally, he knew that he'd been brainwashed and that there was nothing wrong with him -- in fact, by most standards, his body was beautiful. On an almost instinctive level, though, the shame and horror was a screaming noise at the back of his brain.

The thought of Sara touching him, something so unclean, horrified him. Holding her hand against his face was almost more than he could bear. He wasn't able to look at her, in case he saw in her eyes the same horror he felt. When she had brushed her fingers across his face, he was flooded by a combination of revulsion and desire so strong he shook. When he let go, she didn't move for a long second, and he'd wanted that moment to freeze forever: her hand resting on his cheek of her own accord. It was that which would give him hope: she hadn't pulled immediately away.

Sara had turned her back, giving him a certain amount of privacy. Obviously, that was all he was getting. In a way, he was glad. It would be so easy to let this latest dose of programming take over, but he didn't want to. Being free of Irons' control was too exhilarating, even if trying to disobey this ingrained inhibition was almost more than he could do.

Her fingers, soft and warm and gentle against his face.

As he threw off the covers and stood, Ian saw Sara's body relax almost imperceptibly. So she hadn't been sure he would -- could -- do it. It was disturbing to know she was paying such close attention to him, but he did his best to ignore it and pulled his clothes to himself. He tried not to think that she could turn around at any moment, but he dressed hurriedly anyway, even putting on his still-damp boots.

"Done," he said, as he sat heavily on the edge of the mattress.

*****

"Damn it," Sara said, and kept staring out of the window.

Dante and his pal Orlinsky had just gotten out of a car across the street. As much as she'd like to believe that they were here to check on her well-being, she didn't think that was the case. Dante was Irons' dog in the police department; they were here for Ian, and probably her, too. They turned to look up at her windows, and Sara quickly stepped back.

"We've got to go," she said, turning. "Now. Quick. Up, up!"

Ian stood slowly, with little of his usual feline grace. She couldn't depend on his help then, she decided. Whatever drugs he'd been given were probably still in his system, and who knew how addled his brain was at the moment. She shooed him toward the door.

As she followed him, she tried to come up with a plan, but none came. There was only one entrance to her apartment, but if they hurried, they might make it to the building's back stairs before Dante and Orlinsky made it up to her floor from the front. That would put Ian out in the sleet without a coat again, but that was all she could come up with. Where they would go after that, she'd figure out when the time came.

She grabbed her gun from the table and tucked it into the back of her leather pants. Ian stood by the door, his shoulders slumped and his hands hanging loosely at his sides. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who could disarm her without an effort. To say he wasn't in top form was putting it mildly. She briefly considered giving him her gun, but she still didn't quite trust him enough.

She reached for the doorknob and a vision from the Witchblade flashed in front of her eyes.

Orlinsky making his way down the alley to the back door, while Dante came up the front stairs, his gun drawn.

Sara yanked her hand away from the door as if it were on fire. Tugging Ian's sleeve, she pulled him back over to the window. She unlocked it and tried to push it open, but it was stuck. After a moment, Ian reached around her and pulled it up in one smooth move.

She poked her head out to double check, but Dante and Orlinsky weren't in sight. She climbed out onto the fire escape, and Ian followed. She motioned him down the ladder, following him as soon as he was halfway down. The ladder stopped about five feet from the ground, but Ian managed the drop with some of his usual style. As she reached the bottom rung, he lifted her down easily, then stood waiting as the icy rain pounded down on them.

Sara looked up and down the street, then randomly chose left. Making Ian walk next to the buildings for the small amount of protection it afforded from the weather, they headed away from her apartment building. She had no idea where they could go.

*****

Probably the biggest thing Jake missed about San Diego was the weather, or rather, the lack of it. New York in the winter was cold, wet, and nasty, and he didn't like it one bit. He'd been unable to find a parking spot anywhere close to Sara's place, so he was trying to hold a six-pack and an umbrella in one hand, holding up the collar of his coat with the other, and slogging through the sleet.

He was still two blocks away from her building when he saw Sara huddled in a darkened doorway, looking cautiously around a corner. A hand tapped her on the shoulder and pointed across the street toward him. He couldn't see who was behind her, but a man, he would guess, but the size of the hand. Sara spotted Jake, then turned around to face whoever was with her.

Jake stopped, confused, and looked down the street. In front of Sara's building was Captain Dante's distinctive gold Mercedes. Jake knew that Dante was heavily involved with the White Bulls, but additionally, he seemed to hold some sort of personal grudge against Sara. For whatever reason Dante had come to see Sara, it wouldn't be good. She was probably in trouble.

When he looked back toward Sara, she was in the middle of the street, pulling the man Jake had seen watching her at Danny's funeral along behind her.

*****

Sara pulled Ian under Jake's umbrella, regardless of how little he wanted to be there. Ian's lips were already turning blue from the cold and wet and they'd barely been outside for five minutes. He probably hadn't really warmed up fully from his walk across the city earlier.

"Hey, Jake," Sara said, but the faux-rookie was staring at Ian. "This is a friend of mine," she said, but neither man seemed to be paying any attention to her. "Hello?" She waved her hand in between the two.

Jake shook his head and turned to Sara. He nodded past her shoulder toward her apartment building.

"What's Captain Dante doing here?" Jake asked.

The look on his face suggested he at least knew it wasn't a social call. Sara still wasn't quite sure if she could trust Jake. She and Ian had argued about it before crossing the street. Surprisingly, Ian had been the one to want to ask for his help.

"As long as he doesn't put you at risk, I have no reason to distrust him. Irons discounts him as worthless, though I never have," he'd said. "From what I know, and what you remember, he seems trustworthy."

That was when Sara had realized that Ian had gotten her memories of the other future, as well as his own. She wasn't quite sure what to make of that, so she had decided to ignore it for the time being. She had finally agreed to go with his reasoning, though. If Mr. Suspicion himself was willing to trust the undercover FBI agent, then Sara would, too.

"We need some help, _Agent_ McCartey," Sara said.

Amazingly, Jake didn't try to deny it.

"How'd you find out?" he asked, his eyes going from her to Ian and back again.

"That's not important right now," she said, "But we need to get away from here before Dante figures out that we're not home. Look, we," she nodded her head toward Ian, "Can give you a ton of information on the White Bulls, but we can't do that if they get to us first."

After a considering look at the both of them, Jake handed the umbrella to Sara.

"Come on," he said, turning, "My car's this way."

"Not your apartment," Ian said. "It's bugged." Jake turned around to stare at Ian. "So's the place on Richard Street."

Sara laughed. That didn't surprise her at all. Jake opened his mouth to say something then seemed to think better of it. He just shook his head and led the way back to his car.

*****

"Did your friend Maria have an apartment?" Ian asked Sara when they were in the car.

She turned to look at him in the backseat, her face confused.

"Yeah," she said. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"I don't know where it is," Ian said.

"So Irons won't either," Sara said, and smiled at him. She turned to Jake. "Head north," she said.

It took them twenty minutes to get there, with the only speaking being Sara's directions to Jake. Ian could feel Sara's desire for silence, and Jake seemed to be thinking hard. The other man's attraction to Sara was obvious, though Sara seemed oblivious to it. Jake was confused about the relationship between Ian and Sara, and, given the choice, Ian would keep it that way. Though he trusted the FBI agent to an extent, Ian would still rather have him off balance.

Ian was still freezing in his wet clothes, but the effects of the drugs seemed to be wearing off. His head felt less fuzzy, and he didn't feel the need to violently shy away any time Sara was near him. He had to admit that it was pleasing to have someone worth following, if he didn't feel well enough to lead. It wouldn't have mattered, though, if Sara hadn't been worth following; he would have anyway.

When they got there, Sara led them into a dilapidated building and up a dark stairway to the top floor. Sara stood staring blankly at an apartment door.

"I don't have the key," she said after a moment.

She sounded sad, Ian decided. He hadn't realized how it might upset Sara to be here. There was nothing to be done about that now, though.

"I can talk to the super," Jake said, looking vaguely up and down the hall.

Ian reached around Sara and twisted the doorknob hard. There was a loud snap, then he pushed the door inward. He stepped through, holding his hand up to keep the others in the hallway. He did a quick sweep of the apartment: living room, galley kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. It was empty of living things except for the skittering of cockroaches, so he motioned them in.

Sara stopped just inside the door, Jake moving past her, looking curiously around. Ian closed the door and locked the deadbolt, then pulled the curtains shut. The living room wasn't well-furnished, but from what he knew from Sara's memories and his own investigation of Maria, she would have entertained her clients at hotels, at their own expense, of course. Ian couldn't bring himself to despise Maria or others like her – he knew what it was like to have to do despicable things in order to survive. At least prostitutes only sold their bodies. Ian had sold his soul as well.

"I haven't been here in more than a year," Sara said softly. "It looks exactly the same." She shook her head slightly, then looked up at Ian. "You're soaked again," she said, then a smile ghosted across her lips. "You know the drill."

With an overly-dramatic sigh, Ian turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom. He was rewarded with a quiet laugh. Good. He could suffer being ignominiously bundled in a blanket if it would please her. 

In truth, he could suffer a lot worse for her -- and probably would.

*****

Jake watched Sara shove the man's clothes in the small dryer she'd found in the closet. Turning it on, she leaned back against it and seemed to be trying to see through the closed bathroom door. Jake could hear water running and steam was already seeping out from under the door.

"So, you want to tell me what's going on?" he asked finally. "And who's your friend?"

Sara turned to face him, and with a final glance at the bathroom door, came to sit on the other end of the ratty couch. Pulling off her leather jacket, she seemed to be weighing several answers in her mind.

"If I told you how I knew you were a fed, you wouldn't believe me, so let's just skip that bit," she said after a moment. "As far as I know, only Ian," she nodded toward the bathroom, "Ian's boss, and I know that. Unfortunately, Ian's boss pulls the White Bulls' strings. I don't know how much danger you'll be in if he finds out you've helped us." She grimaced. "Probably a lot."

"Then you should be in protective custody," Jake said. "Both of you."

"No!" Sara exclaimed, then caught herself. "No. Ian's not someone that the government needs to get their hands on."

"Who is he?" Jake asked, frowning. This didn't sound good. "Who's his boss?"

"Frankly, Jake," she said, sighing, "I think you're better off not knowing the answers to both questions. If Ian wants to tell you, he can, but I'll let him decide. He needs to make his own choices," she said, with a vehemence that didn't seem to match the statement. "But I can tell you what I know about the White Bulls," she said, smiling grimly. "I'll do that happily."

Sara spent the next fifteen minutes telling him about the White Bulls. He'd have to check her story, of course, but it seemed to tally with everything he knew. But she knew names, too, and that was important. She confirmed that Dante was their leader, and Orlinsky his right-hand man. She'd given him a list of other names, some he never would have suspected. She wouldn't tell him how she knew all this, but it was, if nothing else, a way to narrow down the playing field.

He couldn't stop thinking, though, of the look on her face when she was staring at the bathroom door. He would give anything to have that fierce attention focused on him, rather than on the mystery man behind door #1.

*****

Sara jumped up the moment she heard the shower turn off. A look of hurt flashed across Jake's features, surprising her. The undercover agent looked toward the bathroom and his shoulders slumped. Sara hadn't realized that Jake had a crush on her. He was a sweet kid, but Sara didn't feel anything but friendship for him. At a better time, they were going to have to have a talk about this. But not now.

Ian's clothes were dry when she went to check. Rummaging through Maria's dresser, trying not to think of her dead friend, she came up with an extra-large sweatshirt -- black even. Hopefully, the hot water would have really warmed Ian up this time, rather than just a halfway job with blankets. She found, to her own amazement, that the thought of him being uncomfortable pained her.

"Open your eyes, Sara," Elizabeth said. "Sometimes that's risk enough."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she muttered to herself. "I think I've got plenty of risks at the moment, thank you."

She passed the clothes through the narrow opening that Ian allowed. Jake watched uncomfortably from the couch, looking like he wanted to say something unpleasant. Sara sighed to herself. It sounded like the beginning of a really bad joke: "So a cop, an FBI agent, and an assassin are in a dead hooker's apartment" 

Luckily, before she got too morose, Ian pulled open the door and stepped out. His damp hair hung down into his eyes and he pushed it out of the way in irritation. Sara reached up to her own ponytail and pulled out the band. Handing it to Ian, she turned and headed back toward the living room.

Jake stood as she got there. She could see his eyes flicking back and forth between her and Ian.

"I should go," he said, sounding as if that was actually the last thing he wanted to do. "I need to check out those names you gave me and see if I can figure out what Dante's up to."

"I'll be back at work tomorrow--" Sara began.

"No!" both men said simultaneously.

"Excuse me?" she said, turning to look from one to the other. "When did either of you start running my life?"

Sara saw Ian and Jake share a look that clearly said "stubborn woman." If she hadn't been so annoyed with them, she would have been impressed by their manly solidarity. Now, though, it only pissed her off.

"You've still got two more days of leave," Jake said, his face earnest. "You don't want Dante to get suspicious."

"I think he's _already_ suspicious, Jake," Sara said. "I'd rather be able to keep the weasel in my sights."

"He's right," Ian said, pulling his hair back as he moved to stand beside her. "If you have two more days, then we should use them."

"Use them to what?" she asked. "Hide here?"

"Plan," Ian said calmly, snapping the elastic band into place around his short ponytail. "We need information, funds, and a place to stay. We can acquire these in two more days."

"I've got to agree," Jake said reluctantly. "And I don't want to know about any of it." He dug in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. "This bugged, too?" he asked Ian.

"Not by me," Ian said.

"Call me when you've found a place to stay. I don't need to know where," he said, handing the phone past Sara to Ian. "And don't stay here longer than you have to. The address is bound to be in the police report, and Dante will think of it eventually. Do you have cash?" he asked, pulling out his wallet.

Sara was impressed, despite herself. Even knowing that he was a fed, Jake played the doofus rookie so well that she sometimes forgot. They wouldn't be able to use credit cards or cash machines if they were trying to stay out of sight. Those were too easily tracked.

"Do you have cash?" he repeated, tapping her arm.

"About twenty bucks," she said, remembering that she'd forgotten to stop at the ATM after last Friday's payday.

"I have some, maybe a fifty dollars," Ian said. "My escape was not planned. It will take a couple of days to access more."

Jake, looked interested at the word "escape" but didn't ask. He just emptied his wallet of cash and again, handed it to Ian. Without saying anything more, Jake left. Sara turned to face Ian.

"Ganging up on me?" she asked.

"You are impetuous," Ian said reluctantly. "The situation, at the moment, requires planning. I am trained for this." He looked at the bills in his hand. "We have enough for a cheap hotel. Or would you like to stay here?"

Sara looked around at Maria's apartment. She couldn't bear the thought of spending any more time here than she had to. But there was one practical consideration that had to be taken into account: she and Maria had always worn the same size clothes.

"No," she said. "Just let me grab a few things." She sighed heavily. "Maria won't be needing them."

*****

By the time they checked into the cheap tourist hotel near Times Square, it was nearly one in the morning. Ian was exhausted, though he hid it from Sara. Something had gone out of her as they left the apartment and she seemed to be content to let him lead for a while. Luckily, the freezing rain had stopped and they hadn't had to endure another soaking.

She collapsed into bed in a t-shirt she had taken from her friend's house without saying a word to him. He was standing at the window, trying not to think of the fact that there was only one bed, when she finally spoke to him again.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice muffled, probably from the blankets.

"I don't understand," he said after a moment.

"Why are you helping me?" she said.

"I don't think I have a choice," he said, his eyes on the traffic on the street below.

"You always have a choice," she said, her voice tired. "You're my responsibility, but I'm not yours. You have a choice," she insisted.

"Then I choose you," he said softly.

She was quiet, and, when he finally turned around, she was asleep. Her hair was spread across the pillow, her lips slightly parted, and Ian would have given anything to join her.

But he couldn't.

Irons' conditioning still made him afraid have her touch him, even accidentally. It was better than it might have been, but ten years of conditioning wouldn't go away overnight, no matter how hard he wished it.

*****

Ian was still at the window when Sara woke up. His hands were clasped behind him and his head was bowed, a position she'd seen him in so many times in her mind. But never in this lifetime, she realized. Now that he was free of Irons, she had hoped never to have to see it.

"Did you sleep?" she asked, stretching.

"Some," he said without turning. "I don't require much."

"I would have shared, you know," she said. He turned around and just looked at her, his face totally blank. "Oh, yeah," she said, remembering. "That would probably turn you into a quivering mess, wouldn't it?"

The muffled sound of a cell phone rang through the small room. Ian pulled out the phone Jake had given him, then shook his head. Sara scrambled out of the bed and pulled her jacket from on top of the dresser. Rummaging in the pockets, she found her phone. The number was one she didn't recognize. She was about to answer, when she hesitated.

"It's tapped, but it'll take a few minutes to get a location fix. Make it quick," Ian said, anticipating her question.

"Pezzini," she said into the phone.

"Sara, I believe you have something that belongs to me," Irons' voice said.

"I thought you said the Witchblade was mine, Mr. Irons," she said.

Ian took a step toward her, then stopped, something that looked like fear in his eyes.

"Oh, it is," he said, and his voice went cold. "Ian is not."

"No, he's not," Sara said, keeping her voice level, though she would love to yell at this pompous little creature. "He's his own man, and about time, too. He can make his own choices."

"I assume he's with you," Irons said.

"Yeah, I had to get out of bed to answer the phone, though," Sara said, deliberately yanking the billionaire's chain.

After a long moment of silence, Irons said, his voice tightly controlled, "Put him on."

Sara looked up at Ian, who tapped his wrist meaningfully.

"Sorry," she said. "Time's up."

Pushing the end button, she turned the power off as well. Ian was frowning at her.

"He's going to think that we were " he said, but seemed unable to finish the sentence.

"We were what? Gettin' busy? Probably," she said and shrugged. "Let him think that his mind tweaking didn't work. Confuse thy enemies,' Ian. I would have thought you had that one down pat."

*****

Irons very carefully put the phone down on the table next to him. He looked at the man in the chair across from him. Bruno Dante fidgeted in the deep leather chair, looking anywhere but at him. Irons despised the little police captain, but at the moment, he was the only resource he had with a chance of retrieving his wayward Ian.

"They are together," he said and Dante finally looked at him. "They need to be found and separated as soon as possible."

"Why not just wait until Sara comes back to work in a couple days?" Dante asked. "Pezzini'd never leave the force; she'll be back. Then we take her and hold her until he gives up."

"Even if I thought that you could actually hold the lovely Sara against her will, I'm afraid two days is too long." Irons looked into the fire in the fireplace. "It may already be too late," he said quietly.

*****

They'd found a thrift store and gotten a coat and gloves for Ian. Amazingly enough, they were black, and Ian looked back to his usual self. Except for one thing.

"Your ring. I've never seen you without it," Sara said, as she sat next to him at the library's computer. "Where is it?"

"I assume Mr. Irons has it," he said, concentrating on the screen. "I will retrieve it." He tapped on the keyboard, hit enter with a flourish, then leaned back in his chair. "There. By Tuesday we'll have money."

"You can really do all of that by computer?" Sara asked skeptically.

He had explained to her that he had spent several hours, once he had decided to leave Irons, skimming money off accounts that he had access to. He'd managed to accumulate nearly a hundred thousand dollars that wouldn't be missed until Vorschlag's annual audit. All he'd needed was a computer with internet access to finish the process of laundering the money and moving it to where they could get at it.

"They'll notice the intrusion into the system in a few days, but by then it will be too late. I designed it," he said and shrugged. "I know all the ways in and out."

"I just think you should need some sort of special equipment or something," she said, shaking her head. "Not just a computer in the public library."

"Everything's connected, Sara," he said and his eyes lit up, "Even computers."

"Oh, ha ha," she said and swatted him on the shoulder.

Sara was amazed at how comfortable she felt with Ian. This was the longest time she had ever spent with him, and he was surprisingly easy to get along with. They hadn't really done a lot of talking, but it hadn't felt awkward, either. It felt, she hated to admit, _right_. She didn't have to worry about having to watch out for him, and he knew that she was able to take care of herself. This was what the other Bladwielders had been talking about. She actually felt bad for Cathain for having missed out.

"So what now, computer geek?" she asked after a minute that Ian spent admiring his handiwork on the computer screen. "You want to go get your ring or what?"

"It's not important right now," he said. "But we need a place to stay and we're running out of money. I have an idea, but you're not going to like it."

*****

And she hadn't. But she had agreed that it was probably their best bet. How they were going to do it without both of them getting killed, he wasn't exactly sure, but he was willing to try.

"You're sure this is a good idea?" Sara whispered as they stood just inside the door of the warehouse.

"No," he whispered back, "But we need money for two more days. And some equipment and weapons wouldn't hurt either."

"Yeah, especially right about now. In case you've forgotten, Mobius hates you. Plus, he's totally nuts," Sara whispered harshly. "Remember?"

He remembered. He'd killed his former comrades, all but the three that were currently in the warehouse office down the hall. Irons had ordered him to do it, but that didn't make it right. These had been men that had trusted him to lead them, and he'd used his superior skills to kill them. And he'd enjoyed it.

Sara poked him in the back, breaking him out of his reverie. Holding up his hands and motioning for Sara to do the same, he walked toward the glass-walled office. Moby saw him first and got a shot off almost before he could have recognized his former friend.

Ian dropped to the floor as he heard the metallic click of the Witchblade sliding into place on Sara's arm. The sharp zinging sound of a deflected bullet followed and Sara threw herself to the floor opposite him.

"That went well, don't you think?" she said, smiling brightly as more shots pinged off the wall above him. "Did you have a plan B?"

Honestly, though he hadn't expected them to be glad to see him, he hadn't expected to get shot at without a chance to talk. It was dishonorable. But he really didn't blame them. He'd killed all the rest, and they had no reason to think he wasn't here to do the same to them. He really had no plan for this.

"Give me a minute," was all he said to Sara, though.

After a few seconds, Sara said, "No, I don't feel like waiting."

And stood up. The barrage of gunfire increased, but Sara ignored it, the Witchblade held in front of her, deflecting the bullets. He saw her rear back and punch, and then step into the office. After a few seconds that were punctuated by loud thumps, the gunfire stopped.

He stood cautiously and looked into the office. Markus and Herron were on the floor, probably unconscious. Sara had the point of the Witchblade at Mobius' throat. The man's eyes flicked back and forth between Sara and Ian.

"We just came to _talk_," Sara was saying to the Black Dragon. "I promise Ian isn't here to finish his job, OK? He won't hurt you."

"You?" Moby asked, his eyes dropping to the Blade.

"Me? I think this is a bad idea, but I'm going along with Ian right now," Sara said. "Do you think you two can have a civil conversation?"

Very carefully, Moby nodded. Sara let the Blade retract and stepped back.

*****

Ian watched Sara disarm the other groggy two members of his old unit. Moby was studying him, he knew, trying to figure out what his plan was. He was going to find it hard to believe that Ian didn't have one. As their leader, he had always been in charge, the one with the plan, the one they turned to. Even as the drug therapies started to fail and they began to lose their minds, their loyalty to him was something that hadn't wavered. He'd used that to kill some of them. It shamed him.

"It is easier to forgive an enemy than a friend," Moby said suddenly.

Ian turned back to face him.

"Am I an enemy or a friend?" he asked.

"Enemy, friend" Moby said and shook his head dismissively. "The Iron man controls you."

"Not anymore," Ian said, "And I need your help. _We_ need your help."

"He controls you both," Moby said. "This is a trick."

"It's not going to work," Sara said, her voice frustrated. "He's nuts. Let's just go."

Ian turned to her, and as soon as his eyes were off Moby, the man bore him to the floor. Ian landed hard on his back, his outstretched arms absorbing most of the impact. Moby pulled a hunting knife from under his jacket and held it at Ian's throat. Sara pulled her gun from the back of her jeans and had it pressed to the back of Moby's head before Ian could tell her not to.

"It's ok, Sara," Ian said.

"Um, no, it's not," she said. "I'm not going to let him kill you just so you can make a damned point." She pushed the gun against Moby's head. "Let him go."

"Sara," Ian said warningly.

Her eyes flashing in anger, she yanked the gun away and stalked across the room. She kicked the wall hard, then leaned against it, her arms crossed over her chest. Ian shifted his eyes back to the man above him. Moby looked confused.

"Why does she protect you?" he asked.

"Because I left Mr. Irons. I'm sworn to serve her, not him," Ian answered and heard Sara snort derisively.

"Yeah, my knight in shining freaking armor," she muttered, loud enough for both men to hear. "If he's my gift, I want a refund."

Moby raised an eyebrow at him, and Ian shrugged. With a considering look, Moby sprang up and off of him. He turned to Sara and bowed deeply.

"I am at your service," he said.

"Oh, give me a break," Sara said. "Was medieval etiquette part of Black Dragons 101?" 

*****

"Hello?" Jake said, picking up the phone.

"Hey, Jake," Sara's voice came over the line.

"Sara!" he exclaimed, the looked around to make sure no one had heard him. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. This is just so much fun, let me tell you," she said, and Jake could hear male voices arguing in the background. "Settle down!" she called out. "I can't hear!" The noise subsided. "Sorry about that. We've found a place to stay. How are you coming along?"

"Pretty good," he said, and reached out with his foot to kick shut the door of his office. "All of the names you mentioned checked out. Promotions, commendations, convenient transfers, that sort of thing." He looked across the hall toward Dante's office, where the Captain and several of his cronies had been shuttered for most of the day, until they all left separately. "Something's up with Dante. Think they're looking for you?"

"I'm sure of it," Sara's voice said, after a burst of static. "I've pissed off someone bigger than Dante and stolen his favorite toy." There was quiet for a second, and Jake thought the cell phone had cut out. "Look," she said finally, "I think that you should maybe take a little vacation. Get out of town for a few days."

"I can take care of myself, Sara. I'm not really a rookie," he reminded her.

"I know," she said, but sounded frustrated. "I just don't want you to get hurt, ok?" She sighed. "I should go. Be careful."

Before he could say anything more, the phone went quiet again, cut off for real this time. He hung up his and stared at the computer screen in front of him. He was looking at a picture of a man in black with the name Ian Nottingham. Under his name was the word "Wanted." He shook his head and logged out of the FBI's website. That had just gone up this morning. How deep was the trouble Sara was in? And why hadn't he told her about this new development with her friend?

*****

Sara put the phone back in her pocket and turned to find Ian standing behind her. He looked questioningly at her.

"Dante's on the hunt," she said. "But I'm pretty sure we can outwit him." She nodded over his shoulder where the remaining Black Dragons looked to be packing up. "What's up?"

"They're leaving," he said. "I told them we'd take care of Mr. Irons. That he wouldn't hurt them anymore. I promised."

He sounded like he was worried he wouldn't be able to keep his promise. She studied his face. His brow was creased, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Is there something you should tell me?" she asked finally. He shook his head, then nodded it. "Pick one," Sara told him, trying to keep her impatience out of her voice. Sometimes, dealing with Ian was like babysitting the oldest child on earth. 

"I'm not sure I can face him," he said quietly.

Sara took a deep breath, then let it out again. It wouldn't do any good to get angry at him. Not only couldn't he help his conditioning, but if he got that puppy-dog look he sometimes sported when she snapped at him, she might be tempted to give in and overprotect him. It was good that he told her now, rather than when it was going to make the difference between life and death.

"But I can," she said. "You don't have to now. You will eventually, though," she said. "You know that, right?"

He nodded his head, still looking at the floor. After a moment, he raised his eyes to hers. Sara was relieved to see only determination on his face. Reaching up, she patted his cheek, and he barely flinched. Good, at least they were making progress there.

"Why don't we go see Irons now?" she said, suddenly inspired. "Let's just get this over with."

"Yes," he said, and took a deep breath. "That would be best."

*****

Ian guessed that his former master would be at home. The security system was better and easier to operate at Faust Street than at the Vorschlag building. It did, however, have a weakness, one that Ian had intentionally built in. He hadn't been sure why at the time; maybe he had been anticipating his freedom. He pressed the final button on the phone, then turned it off. He handed it back to Sara.

"That's all?" she said, her disbelief evident. "You can turn off the entire system with a code from a cell phone?" She shook her head. "I wish I'd known this before."

"Better, the system looks like it's still working," Ian said. "You never know what you might need. A warrior is prepared for everything."

"Yeah, boy scouts, too," she said, rolling her eyes. "Can we get on with this?"

Ian hesitated briefly, then took a few steps back. With a short run-up, he vaulted to the top of the high stone wall surrounding the house. He quickly glanced around at the grounds, empty in the twilight except for the light snow drifting to the ground. Then leaning down, he pulled Sara up after him. He jumped to the ground and caught Sara as she came down after him.

Guiding her along the wall, they made their way to the side of the house and across from a steel door. His phone call should have left it unlocked, but he had already warned Sara that they might need the Witchblade's stone to open it. This was the only part of the system he hadn't been able to get to shut down reliably. After a careful check, they darted across the lawn to the door, and, luckily, it pushed open easily.

Ian entered first, leading the way down the hallway. Their first stop was his small bedroom. Moving quickly, he shed his coat and put on his own, still on its hook on the back of the door. Yanking open the drawer of his bedside table, he pulled out a handful of papers and stuffed them in a pocket: passport, birth certificate, and Social Security card. All were fake, but they might prove useful. Taking his katana in its scabbard, he slung it over his shoulder, ready to be used. He turned to Sara and nodded.

"That's it?" she whispered. "Nothing else? No pictures, nothing of sentimental value, no jewelry? We probably won't be back again."

"Nothing else here," he said.

He really didn't want anything from Irons, but he would take these few things as payment for his servitude -- plus the hundred thousand dollars, of course. He gestured to the door and Sara stepped aside to let him lead.

Ian still wasn't sure what they were going to do when they found Irons. Sara had said, "Leave it to me," and Ian was happy to do so. For all of his rebellion, Ian still wasn't sure that he would be able to hurt Irons or even defy him when faced with a direct order. That conditioning was too long ingrained. He would just have to wait and see and stay as close to Sara as he could.

They came to the tall doors of the study and Ian stopped to listen. Sara didn't. She pushed past him and shoved the doors wide open. Ian quickly followed after her as she strode in.

"Hello, children," Irons said from his chair by the fire. "I was hoping you'd stop by."

*****

Irons focused on keeping his appearance calm. He was raging inside -- he could barely see for fury -- but he wouldn't show it. Sara stood boldly in front of him, the Witchblade -- _his _Witchblade -- glowing in the dim firelight. Ian stood behind her like a shadow.

"Have you come home, Ian?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound forgiving. "I have missed your companionship."

His creature didn't answer, but took a step closer to Sara. The Wielder glanced over her shoulder at Ian and gave him a quick smile before focusing on Irons again. Irons' hands clenched convulsively on the arms of his chair. That sort of easy affection was exactly what he had aimed to prevent.

"I don't think so, Mr. Irons," Sara said. "We've come to tell you that if you leave us alone, we'll leave you alone. Between Ian and I, I'm pretty sure we have enough to make several government agencies _very_ interested in you."

Irons forced a smile.

"I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement," he said. "Why don't you sit down, and we can discuss it."

"There's nothing to discuss," Sara said, her voice impatient. "And call off your dog Dante."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sara," Irons said.

He saw Ian stiffen and Sara's eyes dart to the balcony above the fireplace. Moving at the same time, they each dashed into the shadows in the corners of the large room as a bullet imbedded itself in the floor where the pair had been standing.

"Very good, Captain," Irons said loudly. "Very subtle."

*****

Sara couldn't see Ian on the opposite side of the room. She tried to concentrate on sounds, but all she could hear was the shifting of feet on the balcony above and the crackling of the fire. She wished now that she had spent a little more time asking Ian some questions, especially about that telepathy thing. She could use it right now, considering that she hadn't really had a plan. A little petty theft, a little grandstanding -- that had pretty much been it. "Impetuous," Ian had called her. That was a nice way of putting it. "Freaking stupid" might be better.

She sidled along the wall, trying to get out of the line of fire from the balcony, but keeping herself out of the light from the fire. She was across from Irons, so he would see her the moment she stepped into the light. That must mean that Ian was somewhere behind him. She tried to recall the layout of the room.

The stairs were on that side. Ian would probably try to get in position to take out anyone coming down the stairs. She would try to draw Dante down. Very quietly, she heard the soft sliding sound of a sword being pulled out of a scabbard. She kicked the wall behind her hard to mask the sound, then spun to the right. A shot hit the wall where she had just been standing.

"I don't want them dead," Irons called out.

"You'll have to take what you get, Mr. Irons," Dante's voice answered.

"No! They must be alive," he said, half coming out of his chair before sitting down again. "Put your gun away and come down so they can see you."

There was a muted grumbling from the balcony, then Sara heard Dante make his way to the stairs. Sara shifted her position once more and caught sight of a flash of metal on the table next to Irons: Ian's ring. The Witchblade tingled on her wrist and she felt a sudden compulsion to have the ring. She tried to fight against it, but without her urging, the Blade gauntleted her arm with a loud noise.

Dante's steps stopped at the top of the stairs. She tried to hold herself back, but the urge to move was too strong. She was just about dragged into the firelight by the Witchblade. Finally, she stopped fighting and let the blade extend to its full length. Aiming it at Irons, she strode forward and snatched the ring before he could react.

She stuffed it in her pocket and felt the Witchblade's satisfaction. Shaking her head, she took one more step forward until the point of the Blade rested on Irons' chest.

"Tell me why I shouldn't," she said, pressing the Blade forward, just a bit.

Irons grimaced. Sara could hear Dante take a step down the stairs, then a quick movement as he was pulled through the railing. He landed with a thud on the floor, his gun skittering across the floor.

"Don't, Sara," Ian said, his voice strained.

He was standing over Dante, his katana held loosely at his side. The captain moved and Ian kicked him in the head, but didn't take his eyes from hers.

"Why not?" she asked. "The world would be better off without him."

"Please," he said, distraught. "I'm not sure I could let you do it."

Sara looked at his pained eyes for a long moment, then let the Blade retract. She was going to have to build up a resistance to that particular look. Looking back to Irons, Sara saw his shoulders sag, and his usual cold, controlling look disappear. Now, he seemed only a defeated man.

"You're lucky," she told Irons. "Next time, you won't be." She smiled sweetly. "And Ian and I have all the time in the world." 

She turned her back and walked toward the door. After a moment, she heard Ian follow her. She stopped in the doorway and fished in her pocket. Ian paused next to her.

"I think this is yours," she said, handing the ring to him.

"It is," he said, taking it from her.

With a final glance toward Irons, slumped in his chair by the fire, they turned and were gone.

*****

The End.

For now....

:-)

--Jessica

BTW: Reviews make a sequel come faster. :-)


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